The Child's First Sorrow
by Jennie J
Summary: Young Christine longs for the end of winter, and to hear a bird sing.


_Little Lotte thought of everything and of nothing  
Like a butterfly she flew about in the gold of the sun_  
_In her golden curls she wore the crown of spring  
And her gaze was like the heavens, so bright blue and clear._

_She wheedled her mother and took good care of her doll  
She looked at her clothes and her red shoes  
But above them all she loved a little bird  
Which her father had captured on the snow last Christmas_.

_(Excerpt from "The child's first sorrow" by Andreas Munch)_

The little girl had been collecting branches and twigs for weeks, piling them on the hilltop behind the cottage. She had carried pinecones in her apron, and dragged bundles of resinous branches behind her on the ground. Her father had given her one of his rare smiles to see her struggle so. And every morning it seemed to the child that the pile had grown during the night. Perhaps the "hustomte", the gnome that lived under the barn floor was helping her, she thought, and set out an extra saucer of milk for him.

Her blue eyes and sweet voice had earned her a small pot of tar from "kolaren", the man who made charcoal in an earth kiln in the forest. In exchange for a song he had given her some of the precious flammable liquid that leaked out from the mound of burning logs carefully packed under a covering of soil. He was a quiet man, with a big felt hat, and deepset eyes. The tears that ran down his cheeks when she sang had left pale trails in his sooty face.

Shivering, the girl pulled the red woollen shawl tightly around her shoulders, and tied the ends behind her back. It was the tradition to light bonfires on this last evening of April, to mark the end of winter and to welcome spring. It was going to be such a grand Walpurgis Eve fire! The biggest she had ever built. She was lighting it to frighten away the wolves of winter, so that the farmers could let the cows out to graze safely. It would heat up the earth, so that the lady of spring would dare step forth and scatter flowers on the ground. The dancing flames would warm the air, so that a mild breeze would welcome the little bird when she released it from its cage.

It had been a long cold winter, and one icy day her father had found a little bird sheltering behind the barn. A wandering tinker had made a cage for it out of cunningly twisted wires. She gave it water in a thimble, and fed it grains of wheat and worms she dug out of the steaming midden. It was small and grey, its feathers were so soft, and it tilted its head on one side when she spoke to it. But it never made a sound. She was eager to let it out and to see it soar towards the heavens. Wild creatures should not be caged, she was sure it longed for the open sky and bright sun.

Daylight was fading now, a hush fell over the trees in the forest as the sun sank down behind them. A light shone on the ancient burial mound in the meadow, over by the Jonases' farm. Fires being lit on the all the surrounding farms twinkled across the hillsides, all the way down to the lake.

Fumbling with the matches she lit a bundle of straw and pushed it into the middle of the heap of kindling. The branches she had smeared with tar caught fire first and crackled merrily. She drew back from the scorching heat, and held out her chilblained hands towards the leaping flames, basking in the warmth.

Sitting down on a log she pulled up her thick worsted skirt, took off her clogs and coarse stockings, and stretched out her bare feet towards the heat. She saw her father walking slowly up the hill towards her. It was time for her to go back in to her mother, while he minded the fire. The winter had been hard. The cold wind and grey days had leached the colour from her mother's face and stolen her smile. Her cough had grown worse. Now she was almost too weak to cough at all.

With a brief hug, her father sent her down to the red cottage where the walls glowed with the reflected light of the fire. She paused by the birch grove to pick some wood anemones. In the gloaming, the white flowers shimmered on slender stems rising from tender green leaves.

The linden tree in the yard whispered to her as she ran past it towards the house. In summer it was louder, full of buzzing bees gathering nectar and pollen from the fragrant flowers. Mother used to dry those flowers, and make tea to soothe upset stomachs. Before she went in, the girl dipped her hands in the rainwater tub outside the door to wash her face and smooth down her hair.

She needed both hands to turn the heavy door handle, and crept quietly into the kitchen, hoping her mother would be asleep on the kitchen sofa in the corner. She slept badly at night, so they took care not to disturb her when she did sleep.

"Is that you Stina?"

"Yes mother. We've lit the bonfires, I counted eight this year, and I think ours was the biggest and brightest. It feels warmer outside already," the girl said. She thought she saw the shadow of a smile hover over her mother's face. Putting the flowers into her mother's hand she said, "Look, what I've found."

Without looking at the flowers the woman spoke with sudden urgency. "Let the bird out now, Stina."

"Oh not yet, mother, it's too soon!"

"It is surely warm enough now. It's time to let it go." The mother's voice dwindled into a pleading whisper as she spoke.

The child looked at the flushed face of the sick woman. She opened her mouth to protest, but the pain in her mother's eyes silenced her objections.

She carried the cage to the kitchen door. Setting it on the threshold she opened it gently. At first the bird did not move, then it hopped out. It fluffed up its feathers, looked around, and spread its wings. As it lifted from the ground in a grey blur, the child heard a sigh behind her and turned around.

The drawn look on her mother's face was smoothed out. Her eyes were closed. The flowers in her hand had fallen to the floor.

The girl could feel no breath against the hand she held in front of her mother's mouth. She looked around in dazed bewilderment. What should she do now? The striking of the clock reminded her of her duties. She dragged a chair to the wall, so that she could reach to open the glass front and stop the pendulum. Now what? Oh, she must make her tidy, of course. Wetting the corner of a clean kitchen towel she gently wiped her mother's face and hands. Deftly she untied the tousled side-plait and combed the faded hair smooth before twisting it into a new plait. She straightened the bedclothes, and put the little bouquet of wild flowers between the folded hands on top of the blanket.

When the farmer came home, he found his daughter on the chair under the silent clock, dangling her legs that didn't quite reach down to the floor. The widower Daaé went over to his dead wife, and stroked her cheek with the back of his calloused hand. In a muffled voice, choked up with tears, he spoke, "Kristina, your mother is an angel now, singing with the heavenly choir. She'll be watching over us from heaven, but here on earth we will have to take care of each other."

After he had lit the fire on the hearth, he took his daughter on his knee. Curled up against his chest, she started to cry at last. She sobbed heartbreakingly, her tears soaking his shirt as he rocked her back and forth in his comforting embrace.

In the linden tree outside the door, a little grey-brown bird settled on a branch and started to sing. As the bright embers of the Walpurgis fires faded into cold ash, the throbbing song of the nightingale floated out on the mild spring air.

_Author's note: The poem/song quoted is the beginning of "The child's first sorrow" by Andreas Munch. It is the poem Leroux mentions in "The Phantom of the Opera", about "The Little Lotte"._

_Translation courtesy of Operafantomet and falluke-elskeren at _


End file.
